After the End of the World I Will Find You
by Lace-Sylph
Summary: The world as they known it has ended and John must find Sherlock so they can learn to work in an entirely new reality. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Lost in London

Sherlock hunched against an alley wall in a place he thought **must** be London, shivering convulsively, clawing at his own brain to bring what he saw in line with what he knew MUST be. The headache he had seemed to have forever blurred his vision until everything took on a dream-like quality. He started back violently as a tiny woman with wings floated out from a pub talking with someone he could just barely categorize as human but dressed in outlandish Medieval armor and carrying matching weaponry. That could not be right, it was not **LOGICAL.** He felt the growl in in his throat but could not really hear himself over the incredible dinning ring in his ears. Sweat drooled out of his pores, soaking his clothing until he felt as if he had spent an hour in a molasses slow rain and the shivering intensified until he had to clench his fists close to his chest to avoid knocking something and making noise in this place that was but could not be.

That gesture triggered some memories he thought he had deleted to wind their way out of the dungeon of his mind palace. He knew these feelings, some of them, the sweat, the shaking, headache, starting violently; it all fit. He was in withdrawal, he must be, and though he did not remember taking any drugs he knew from past experience that if he had been high long enough he would not. That had caused some not actually voluntary 'deletions' in past days. What had he taken? A hallucinogen? Not his usual choice and it was useless when he was supposed to be dismantling Moriarty's 'consulting service'. John would be so angry.

_John_

His knees buckled and he practically fell as the vision of his best friend's, his only friend's face appeared in front of his eyes; real enough Sherlock half raised one hand to touch. Then he flinched as the visionary (hallucinatory?) John 's face folded into elegantly expressive line of disappointment and disgust. He moaned, wanting to tell John this wasn't his fault, the world had gone mad. But a head shake and an agonizing throb of his head dispelled the vision. John wasn't here, couldn't be here. He was **looking** for John, his John who would certainly be able to explain things so they made sense.

"I'm sorry." He felt the words on his lips but still could not hear himself although at unexpected intervals sharp noises, metal on metal, languages made up of clicks or growls, ripped through him offending his senses over and over. He shouldn't have done this, **couldn't** have done this! He was traveling to save John. He had … fallen to save his John. This weakness that had crept over his **transport** could not be allowed.

But he had, he must have, because nothing that he saw could be real. This. Was. **London**. He knew it in some way that he could not encompass in words. The streets were right mostly, though the architecture was older, Elizabethan? But with wild deviations that his mind could not bear when he found them. Some seemed to be temples that glowed with a soft light that was neither electrical nor chemical in origin. Some tower type buildings that should not be able to stand up under their own weight! Why could no one see?! Again he felt his mind clawing at his senses demanding data that had some logical form.

Footfalls approaching, determined strides, like a constable but with an oddly ringing metallic note. Sherlock pressed himself into shadows and dropped his head down to his chest to meld better with them. The slow blossoming light banished his safe covering and he started up looking wild eyed at the three figures approaching him with guarded but determined expressions. Sherlock could do nothing stare at the ball of silvery light, like a tiny moon actually hovering into the alley and moving directly towards him. It must be a drug, it must be! Maybe he hadn't actually taken any, maybe it had been introduced into his system by an outside force, like at Baskerville. A groan ripped from his body and he knew it formed a name, the last safe concept in his torn and tattered brain. "John! John Watson!"

He was wildly trying to find an escape and praying to a deity he had never actually believed in that John would find him soon when finally heard words over the crashing din in his head. "Ardric, Talien, cut off the other end." He was caught, John **must** find him.

He turned to dash away, hopefully towards his friend, his *soldier*, when two enormous hands caught his shoulders and lifted him up. His eyes started out of his head, his last thoughts of control and escape disintegrated by the fact that what was holding him simply could, not, exist!

Skin more like hide covered the enormous hands that held his shoulders. They were a man's shoulders but massive, as was the neck that supported the head of a bull who somehow had his eyes to the front of his muzzle. This could not be real, could not! His body practically convulsed as he tried to free himself and screamed the only words his mind knew anymore. "John! John help me!"

Behind him the voice he had heard first dimly penetrated even as he struggled, "Serafina, preliminary diagnosis."

Another, softer voice, a woman's , "Gate sickness, Commander. He's a refugee as I thought, but there is something else. It's making it hard to get a clear read on him."

"Calm him down" This time the voice came from the apparition that held him. "He is going to hurt himself if he struggles much longer. I can barely hold him as it is."

Sherlock swung his arms around, fending off a needle that he knew was coming, now keening his friends name. "Joooohn! I'm sorry! Help me. JOHN WATSON!" But the last thing he knew was a simple deft touch and an invocation in ancient Greek that his mind redundantly translated, "Pallas Athene, wisdom's daughter, cover this suffering soul with the shadow of your shield, wrap him in the peace of your mantle, and with your wisdom bid him sleep."


	2. London under a Shattered Sky

Chapter 1-London under a Shattered Sky

John jerked awake to the sound of his name being wailed making his head ring so painfully that he rolled into a ball and put a hand over his ear instinctively. It was the echo of a voice he had missed for so long his entire being had become defined by the loss. "Sherlock," he muttered, flinging his other hand out to clutch the sheets, as if by doing so could grasp his long-lost friend's hand.

He didn't know how long he stayed that way, minutes or hours, but it was the buzzing of his morning alarm that finally penetrated shaking him out of the daze. "Nightmare," he muttered; he knew it was. Not like the others, involving roofs or war zones, but nowhere outside of a dream, could it be that _Sherlock Holmes_ would wail his name like he was the only real thing left in the universe. A shudder passed through John as his mind replayed that memory for a moment.

With a jerk he banished the tatters of dream and memory to roll out of bed and start his morning. He dressed carefully: dress slacks, shirt, and jumper; all of business-like charcoal. The outfit was formal enough that he could impress those who needed a professional look but comfortable enough to *move* in. As such it had practically become his uniform in the last few months. He wore it as such, scrupulously clean, and precise. He picked up the jacket that went over all, moved to the sitting room of 221B and performed the next part of his morning ritual. It was just one of the habits that he had used to patch himself back into some sort of working order since the world had gone insane. Now Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers could no longer stay by the sidelines and mourn in peace.

He folded his jacket neatly over a chair, went to the kettle, and carefully made two cups of tea. Then he took them both to the windows, set one down near a dust filmed violin case and drank the other while he contemplated the sunrise.

It was always the sunrise or sunset sky that made the present situation of his world most apparent to John. The sun still rose, although he had been told it was an illusion brought about by people's need to *have* a sun in the sky. He could well believe it, too, because seeing it was always like looking at its reflection in a cracked mirror. The outlines of the glowing orb were jagged, with different parts moving faster or slower than the whole. Then the eye was drawn up to where other parts of the sky held the same effect, like cracks in a teapot. John waited until he saw a flash of light slice through and lance down like a celestial spotlight. "You would have deduced the pattern of those flashes in a day," he said to the dusty violin case. "Then you would deduce why the sky was broken, who had done it, and we'd be off chasing them within half a breath." He sipped the last of his tea waiting for Mrs. Hudson's knock to come in and share their breakfast. It was prudent to combine resources when the rationing had begun; so they shared most breakfasts since John had moved back to 221B. The morning knock wasn't long in coming, and John courteously opened the door. However, he was mildly surprised to see former Detective Inspector Lestrade right behind her. "Greg," he asked without asking.

The silver-haired detective grinned and lifted a bag. "Had an early morning and an incoming caravan. I was able to get some of the first pick, and I thought you might appreciate some real sausages and fresh vegetables; tomatoes, onions and mushrooms. The world that the caravan just came from was in the middle of harvest and had extra." Lestrade also glanced at Mrs. Hudson. It was winter here, and with the rationing her health was not as good as before … well, just before.

"I'm out of milk, too," John smiled.

"Got it," Lestrade grinned back. "It's not exactly from a cow, they tell me, but it's … comparable."

"It'll be just fine for us, John," Mrs. Hudson said. "I checked them all over." She twiddled her gloved fingers at him, took the bag from the former DI and bustled into the kitchen.

John shook his head with a half-smile, and stepped back to let his friend through. He watched Lestrade stare at the untouched tea, and almost moved to intercept him grabbing it. The DI contemplated it for a long moment, then made a vague gesture of salute before turning back to John.

"It must help to have a land lady with psychometry," he said ruefully. "Maybe I'll join you more often."

"Only if you bring more like you did today." John shut the door and started to lay the table, trying to ignore the pang in his heart when he didn't have to move a microscope or various experiments. Greg gave him a knowing look and helped. "Anyway, it's better than some of the skills that are turning up. Poor sods going mad because they can hear everyone's thoughts, or feel other peoples' emotions…. We're having a hard time finding places for them all."

Mrs. Hudson turned slightly away from the stove. "At least all I have to do is wear gloves, dear. I feel for those who can't turn it off, I really do."

"Actually, some of those that came last night say they can help them. Train them how to turn it on and off." Greg said as he sat down with a tired sigh.

"Do you think they really can?" John asked. It was his business to ask this. Somehow, not long after the almighty storm, which heralded what had come to be called the Shattering, he found himself placed in charge of the ministry in health and human services that had to do with "oddities".

"Yeah," Greg said. "Most of them are of that gray-cloaked lot who helped us fight off the troops of the nutter who set himself up in St. Albans. And the ones that weren't were vouched for by them."

"Guess I'll be meeting them today." John nodded absently to Mrs. Hudson as she set a plate in front of him. "Didn't get a chance to talk much during the invasion." John had been recruited to command troops to fight off the horde of … things when what was left of the police force and other London security couldn't stem the tide.

It wasn't long after that that a grey-cloaked army had started to pour out of places they called "Gates"; magical holes that led between world splinters. They brought weapons that, at first, seemed bloody stupid; swords, bows, staves, and the like. They cut down the attackers better than any of the conventional munitions, and every team of grey-cloaks fought like an SAS force unto themselves. They had gone as quickly as they had arrived though; leaving behind knowledge of the other worlds that lay beyond these Gates, some trade contacts, and precious little else. And it was just after that that John had gotten an offer that changed everything...again.

John was doing rounds in one of the buildings pressed into service for the less seriously wounded when a pair of walking suits came right up to him and said, "This way please, Dr. Watson."

He knew immediately who had sent them and he was having none of it. "Tell Mycroft to piss off. I have work to do here." John knew that the personal tragedy he carried was small compared to what was happening all around him. He also knew that in the absence of Parliament it was probably Mycroft that ran the city, perhaps saving it, and could put him up against a wall to be shot without anyone asking questions. He'd be buggered if he would come to heel at the Iceman's call, though. He could neither forget nor forgive the fact that Mycroft had handed Moriarty everything the bastard had needed to drive Sherlock to suicide. It would be a waste of time to fight these minions off but this is where people needed him and the elder Holmes wasn't worth a piss in his mind.

"Doctor, I was told to ask you two things if you would not come away immediately. First, do you think that these people are all that need your care?"

"I know there's more!" John half shouted, then looked around and gritted his teeth, this place was far too public. "Here." John dragged one of the suits to an alcove, "Tell your boss that I'm doing what I can, where I can and he can keep his interference to behind the cameras I know that are on me." John couldn't help another dig, "Tell him to make his power plays behind the scenes while I help those who pay for them."

"Yes sir." The suit said to him, "There is another question."

"Yeah, cheers, I don't want to hear it." John walked away.

"Mr. Holmes asks if you would like to know the real reason his brother Fell." The question cut John so badly he had to stop and lean against a wall, panting at the pain shooting through his whole body. For a minute he was back at the sidewalk in front of Bart's, desperately clutching at Sherlock's wrist to find a pulse that his Doctor's eyes knew would not be there.

John swallowed hard and said, still facing away, "He's not going to leave me alone, is he? Whether he has anything real to say or not, he will have you say anything that will bring me to heel."

The second suit, who John noticed had a sympathetic look, walked over to him. "We only know what we are told, Dr. Watson, but Mr. Holmes was quite adamant that we not come back without you."

John pinched his nose and sighed. "Fine." He said shortly, "But you can wait outside while I find someone to cover for me. There are only a couple of ways out of this place and I'm sure you know how to cover them both." His voice was bitter with suppressed rage.

One of the suits started to protest but the one with the sympathetic eyes stopped him. "Your word is good, Doctor. We'll be at the curb with the car."

John snorted as they walked away, of course *they* had a car, with little gasoline to be had the government were the only ones to have vehicles in use. The rest had to walk and be thankful. It didn't take too long to go up to the barracks like room that the single, former military medics like himself were using to stay close to their patients. It took even less time to find someone to cover for him. Most of the men and women staying here had little else to do with their lives now that London had been cut off from the rest of their world. He felt comfortable here, where no one asked what tragedy had given them nowhere else to be useful. They didn't care that his personal tragedy had predated this cataclysm that the grey-cloaks called The Shattering.

John didn't need anything else with the summer like weather, so he simply walked out and got into the long black car without another word. All his attention was taken up with suppressing the absolute rage that filled him. At least he wanted to wait until he had the proper target. The suits rode in the front of the car and kept silent. They knew that any misjudged word would set him off. It would too. First Sherlock's suicide and then seeing his beloved city turned into a battle field had made John's control of his temper uncertain. No one was safe. When he had been called in to report on the invasion defense to Scotland Yard Sally Donovan had made one remark about 'the Freak'. The next thing John knew they had been dragging him off her, and it had only been Lestrade's intervention that had kept him from being locked in the cells. He wasn't in the least surprised when he had been sent to the other side of the city to treat patients that only recognized him from the newspapers. Everyone had more on their minds by that time than the sensationalism leading up to...the Fall.

It didn't take long for them to get to the nondescript building where John supposed Mycroft ran the City. It was a bit of a surprise that he hadn't set up shop in the Diogenes Club but John supposed the administrative staff would have made too much noise for that most silent of places. And John was sure, absolutely sure, that the Diogenes members kept to their rules amid all this chaos. It would take far more than the universe shattering to change that place. For much the same reason John expected to see Mycroft just as he was; immaculate in a three piece suit and an elegantly understated tie. "Ah, Dr. Watson, good of you to join me."

"Piss off," John said with as close to the scathing tone Sherlock employed as he could. He felt an instant of vicious joy as he saw Mycroft's face flicker. In a Holmes it was as good as a flinch.

"Whatever you do think of me, Doctor, I assure you I would not disturb you for less than urgent reasons."

"Ta, yeah. You mean the same kind of reasons that led you to killing your brother?"

John could see Mycroft's jaw firm. The British Govenment sighed in that ever so patient way of his, set down the papers he had been holding and walked closer to John, "John, whatever you may think of me I did *not* kill Sherlock."

John clenched his hands into fists, "No, you just handed Moriarty every tool he needed to kill him for you. I knew you had sibling rivalry issues but..."

"Please Doctor." Mycroft leaned forward but John backed up, incidently placing himself in a good fighting stance.

"But back in the beginning you said you worried about your brother constantly and I was fool enough to believe you."

"John I *do*..."

"But it didn't stop you a second in selling him off, piece by piece, just to get what you wanted. I doubt you've had a single restless night over it." John felt himself settle into the cool almost detached state that he'd had on the battle field.

"Dr. Watson!" Mycroft roared over him, his face contorting "I didn't kill my brother because he is still alive!"

John felt the statement slam through him and light the fuse of his rage, even if for a suddenly different reason. His fist connected with Mycroft's jaw hard enough to slam him to the floor. Then he stood over the prone man, panting, "You had better not be fucking around with me, Mycroft. I don't care if you run the city; lie to me and I *will* kill you."

"I didn't know myself at first but he came to me a few days after. He also asked me for exactly two things. A set of 'clean' identification papers from every country in whose language he was fluent and to keep a tight surveillance on you." Mycroft didn't try to scramble to his feet but just lay on the floor rubbing his already purpling lips. He opened his mouth and gingerly felt his teeth, one coming away into his fingers. He took out a handkerchief and spit some blood into it. "That's why you've seen the CCTV cameras following you. And why you would get sudden visits from Lestrade and others during the first few months."

John finally turned away, wiping his face in his hands, remembering the late night when Greg had showed up just in time to talk John's Browning away from his temple and out of his hand. It had been just before the world had gone insane and suddenly they both had some much to do that John was simply too busy to think of anything other than doing the job that was in front of him. Then his brow wrinkled, "Why? Why all this to begin with?"

"I told my brother once that caring was not an advantage." Mycroft lifted himself to his feet, and brushed himself down. "He could always anticipate physical or mental attacks; could map them out better than many generals I had seen. But he was consistently surprised by attacks directed from emotional motives; he simply could not plan for them. In the end neither could I really and Jim Moriarty was no fool." Mycroft looked at John's still confused face, "Snipers can be such efficient tools, deployed properly."

John swallowed as his memory rang with Sherlock begging him to not move, to keep John's eyes fixed on him. He felt his stomach roll with sudden nausea and he clutched at a chair back, "I was being targeted that day." His tones felt like lead.

"And Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Lestrade. Three guns, three bullets; even Sherlock Holmes could not counter all three in time. They had to see him jump or you would have all died." Mycroft collapsed into one of the chairs, hiding his eyes for a moment. "He didn't tell me exactly how the Fall was managed but did say that Miss Hooper had helped him. And then he *begged* me to watch you, gave me instructions on how to bug 221B in ways you would not see." The elder Holmes looked up at John and his eyes shown with tears that he would never let fall. "My brother has not begged anything of me since he was seven years old."

John stood for very still, clutching the chair back and blinking as he tried to make some order of what he was hearing. Sherlock was _alive_. His heart pounded out that message so strong John could feel it thumping in his temples. Sherlock had begged Mycroft to keep an eye on John. The Detective had valued John enough to ask a favor of someone that he'd rather chew off his left arm than apply to for help. And above all...above all even though John had called him a machine and Sherlock had said 'alone protects me' the idiot had leapt off a bloody roof to protect the people he obviously cared for. Also John knew there was no guarantee that any scheme involving that kind of risk would work. Any amount of things could have gone wrong and left Sherlock simply injured...or worse, in a vegetative state.

John felt all the months of barely contained rage spill out of him and he collapsed in the chair facing Mycroft's. "Where is he?" He begged simply.

"The last communication from him was from northern Italy. That was the night before the Storm hit." Mycroft said simply, "After that..." an elegant hand waved helplessly. After that there had been no way to even find other parts of their own Britain outside London, much less halfway across Europe. "Even then he wasn't sure that the entire web had been taken down here. I was working on it personally but it was complicated, levels and levels of communication and compartmentalization... I couldn't be sure I had gotten them all. So all I could do was keep watch and try to protect who my brother treasured most."

"Then why," John clutched his hands together and put them to his trembling lips, swallowing bitterly against the fact that he'd not fully realized how much Sherlock had cared...did care for him, "Why am I here now?"

"Our visitors in the gray cloaks, they call themselves Quest's Children or simply Questers. During the defense, part of their force pulled their attention away from the invasion to attend to what Jim Moriarty left behind. This morning they informed me of their actions just before leaving. I don't know how they did it and they didn't give me a chance to ask. But as of now there is not a single operative I suspected of being Moriarty's. There were a few they delivered that I hadn't even dreamed were involved. The only bodies left were a few that had been on the front lines. They delivered one to me personally that had been on my own staff and was able to confirm to me that every other cell had been eradicated, seconds before he died, that is. They are quite, quite merciless these Questers." Mycroft wiped a hand over his forehead and John could see his discomfort. "Like it was a personal vendetta for them."

John had a thousand questions over why such strangers would care but he wiped them aside for a more pertinent, more urgent question, "Can they find _him?_" He said with quiet desperation.

"They assured me that they would try, John, but the matter is more complicated than I could ever dream. This...Shattering has hit more than our world, more than even our universe. It's hit every universe we can imagine, any universe we can dream of and a lot we don't they told me. And it is spreading." Mycroft half laughed and John's stomach sank at the note of suppressed hysteria in it, "They even left me evidence of it all." Mycroft lifted himself up and took what looked like a glass paperweight from his desk. It started to glow with rainbow colored lights that resolved into a floating screen similar to a computer monitor. "A way to call for help I was told."

"What's it made of?"

Mycroft looked through the semi-transparent screen at John and for the first time ever the Doctor could see terror in his eyes. "I was told...magic."

After that John had made it his business to stay close to Mycroft; since he figured if any news of Sherlock came in it would probably come there first. At least, it had started that way. John quickly learned that although Mycroft had always seemed to be bedrock stable what was happening now had basically crushed that bedrock into quicksand. It didn't show obviously but there were certain things Mycroft simply could not deal with. After John had found Mycroft going without sleep trying to figure out the 'distress beacon' one too many times he had simply confiscated it and tellingly, Mycroft had let him. That had started a general shift in their working relationship with John starting to handle the odd things that Mycroft couldn't seem to even contemplate. When it had got too big for him to handle alone John had simply brought in Lestrade. He figured if the DI had been able to deal with Sherlock for all those years he was probably flexible enough to help deal with the various madnesses that filled their days.

It had turned out to be a pretty good idea too; Lestrade seemed to be able to keep his cool with whoever and whatever made up the caravans that had started almost immediately to bring in supplies to the undernourished city. John was able to concentrate on taking care of the strange things that were happening *to* the people of the city. It felt strange sometimes when the three of them got together over a bottle of ridiculously rare scotch to compare notes for John to realize that they were in essence running the city of London. At least John didn't have time to be bored. And although they never spoke of it the hope that Sherlock would be found ran like a golden thread under every conversation. John clutched at that thread to keep himself sane.

Mrs. Hudson had made a rule of no business talk at her table so the two men simply dove into their breakfast with minimal conversation. Lestrade's marriage had finally dissolved completely and John didn't have a life other than work these days so they confined themselves to complimenting Mrs. Hudson on her cooking. John had gotten up to grab his jacket when Greg got a text on the phones they had managed to restore to some sort of service. "John," he said, his voice suddenly serious, "There are a pair of Questers who just arrived asking for you by name. By *exact* name."

John felt himself pale. It could only be news of Sherlock. "Greg..." he said helplessly, hope and dread warring in him and paralyzing him. That Sherlock wasn't actually with them could mean he was...no. John shook his head against that thought.

Greg grabbed his short silver-grey coat and shoved John's jacket into his arms. "Focus John. We go and we find out and then we find out what we can do."

John couldn't argue with that. So he simply followed the silver haired man out of the door.


	3. Gray is their Raiment

Lestrade had been one of the first to acquire a car that ran on something other than petrol so it didn't take them much time to get to Kensington Gardens, where most caravans came in. John felt like he had a live salmon flipping around in his stomach and from the look of Greg he wasn't much better. "It'll be alright, John. I know it." The DI said gently.

"How do you know, Greg? How can anyone..." John clamped his jaw shut. If Sherlock was alive he would have demanded to be brought here; even injured he had always pushed away any help but John's. So if a pair of Questers were here, and without Sherlock, it was because the detective *couldn't*.

"I have faith, John." Lestrade said seriously, keeping his eyes on the street to make sure they took the quickest route.

"Faith? In what Greg? The whole world, the universe, has gone to complete shit, so what is there to have faith in?"

"Maybe just that things can always change towards the better. The proverb I've heard is, Questers carry change under their cloaks. So at the very least we'll be able to get some questions answered. I've been giving every caravan that comes in a description and a message to pass on to Sherlock to tell him to get his ass back here. "

John tried for a grin, "And you think he'd listen to you?"

"Nah," Lestrade's grin was impish, "I forged your signature, mate." When John turned to him with an astonished look, the DI's grin got wider. "What you think I haven't picked up a thing or two myself? I've been a cop a long time and got to be a detective quite a bit before I met the great Sherlock Holmes. And a good cop knows just enough dirty tricks to get his job done."

"You're trying to distract me." John accused.

"Is it working?" Lestrade pulled into a cordoned off parking area.

"A bit."

"Good. Now let's go see what news there is to be had." Lestrade got out of the car and contemplated the teeming crowd.

John could count the banners of at least six caravans fluttering in the wind and security was having a hard time keeping people from trying to grab goods as they were being offloaded. "Fuck," he said feverently, "How are we going to find anyone in this?"

"Welcome to my daily grind." Lestrade chuckled, "Let me try to tag someone who can lead us directly to the right people." He got out a radio and started to inquire of his people. John, in the meanwhile contemplated the crowd. He wasn't surprised at the barely controlled savagery of some of those trying to get more than their fair share of the food and other goods brought in. He had seen scenes much the same in Afghanistan. It just saddened him to see it in his own home city. Most of the time he was insulated from this, dealing with a slightly more legitimate madness in the people who suddenly had perceptions they had never had before and couldn't control. He was suddenly glad he didn't have Lestrade's job. Having to deal with this sort of thing every day would have made John ready to shoot something. And he wasn't sure whether it would have been one of the crowd or himself.

"Okay," Lestrade said, "We can go around all this. The ones we want asked for a bit of a secluded area to rest. Apparently they aren't used to a city environment. Come on."

The two men skirted the massive crowd carefully. Some fistfights were breaking out around a wagon that looked filled with casks. "Christ, every time." The silver haired man said almost to himself. "There are more fights over any alcohol that comes in than the food. The IQ of a mob is the IQ of the smartest person divided by the number of assholes in the bloody mob."

"You say that a lot." In fact, John thought he could remember Lestrade saying it just about every time he had to share a report at their planning sessions.

"It's true a lot." Lestrade shot back, "And believe me it barely matters what species comes through the Gate with supplies. People are people no matter what shape they take."

"Is that how you keep your head when non-humans come through?" John nodded towards a griffin that came in for a landing on top of the cask wagon and gave a raptor's screech that had most of the crowd scrambling away, their fights forgotten.

"Partly. If his nibs would just let a few of the ones like that stay if would make handling all this a lot easier."

"We can barely house and feed what people we have and we don't have much to trade."

"Mycroft's got you believing that has he? Well, let me tell you the first few caravans that came through were charity pure and simple but to keep the food coming in we had to *find* something to trade. There wasn't much here that was really wanted or needed in the world splinters who have the more land under the plow but the caravanners needed people who had a way to find Gates and a way of dead reckoning. We found that among London cabbies there were quite a large group that can sense Gates and all of them can sense where they are in relation to here. That was why a lot of cabbies suddenly decided to emigrate. Most of the single ones work in teams with one caravan or another."

John felt his jaw drop, "Why haven't you told me this before."

Lestrade snorted, "First, the service of the cabbies was the only thing we had to trade that would bring in enough food to keep the rest of the city alive. Two, it was my division and I didn't want to get in an argument with you. And three, they were all volunteers. I negotiated to make sure they all rotated here every three months for R & R. You had your hands full, John, and I know how to do my job."

"Right, yeah, sorry, Greg. I don't know why I immediately started thinking it was some sort of underhanded scheme."

"Cause Mycroft would do it if he thought he could get away with it. But all the caravan masters insisted on volunteers and they had ways of checking to make sure it was all right and tight. As cabbies these people were in one of the lower rungs of society; now they are some of the most valuable people on any world. A lot of them may never come back here to stay. They like the privileges of being a valuable commodity."

"Brilliant." It still felt odd to say that to someone other than Sherlock but Lestrade exuded a confidence here that he had never shown at a crime scene. John couldn't figure out how but it was pretty plain in the way Greg guided him around the edges of the crowd. Even the caravanners made way for him respectfully.

It took them a while, but finally they managed to get around the various clusters of wagons and people to where a young man in a constable's uniform waited. "They are this way sir." He said to Lestrade.

"Thanks Philips, lead the way please."

"Yes, sir."

The young patrolman led them away from the slightly organized chaos. John hadn't been to any of the parks in a long time and the ascetic beauty of the bare winter trees with the light dusting of snow that had fallen last night struck him to the core. It made him think of Sherlock's strange beauty, something John would have never admitted to when they had run through scenes like this after some criminal.

John swallowed down the bitterness of the chances he'd missed; mostly through his own stubborn denial. He'd never been attracted to a man before Sherlock. He had admired and respected other men, but none of them had drawn him in like the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. Up until the Fall John had mistaken their relationship for a particularly intense friendship, something like what happened between army mates who had to rely on each other for their very existence. But the pain he had felt at Sherlock's 'death' was unlike any other; not even the grief of fellow doctors dying under his hands could compare. Losing Sherlock had been startlingly like losing a limb, losing a half of himself. So after one particularly dark night filled with alcohol and remorse, John finally admitted to himself what had been impossible before. Irene Adler was right; Sherlock and he had been a couple. All the girlfriends had been a blind to him and to the Great Detective that John was heterosexual and still looking. John finally admitted he was closer to bisexual and Sherlock had been all that he really wanted. Excitement, danger, mystery all wrapped up in an ethereally beautiful package.

That had been the night that Lestrade had talked John's gun out of his hand, confiscated it, incurring a debt of gratitude that John could never repay. It was more or less the tie that helped them work together so well now and in such a different world.

Turning the corner, both the men stopped at the sight in front of them and John heard Lestrade gasp. It wasn't the troika like sled that stunned John, although it's carvings of Celtic designs were quite gaudy to his eyes, it was the animal that was harnessed to it. John had become somewhat more familiar with horses since they had been more employed around the city as the petrol ran out and others could not get the magical equivalent that Lestrade had but this was not a horse. John's mouth opened in shock at the huge, swept back, ebony wings that stretched from the equine's back and he gulped at the blue, softly glowing, horn that spiraled up out of the broad forehead of the beast. It looked more dangerous to John than any weapon he had ever seen.

Lestrade's reaction was quite different to John's own. After the initial startled gasp of he sprinted to the thing. "Stinan!" The DI yelled like a boy encountering a long missed schoolmate, and ran to hug the muscular neck of the thing. John stood frozen, unable to get a hold of just what was going on.

"Greg!" John heard an oddly resonant voice answer Lestrade and was shocked further to realize it came from the harnessed equine. He sounded as excited as the DI and nuzzled the man like John had once seen a beloved horse nuzzle a favorite rider in the Queen's guard.

Out of the troika stepped a tall slim figure of a woman; or rather, he noticed after a moment, of an Alfain female. The elflike ears and brows and the gold tinged skin and her height all identified her as such. She looked startled herself for a moment then seemed to recognize Greg. "a'Strade?" She asked her cool, high voice shaded delicately with her surprise.

Lestrade lifted his face from the neck of the strange equine, "Lyra," he grinned, the cocky grin John had usually seen during a fake drug bust at 221B. "You travelling with this old reprobate? I was wondering when he would find me." Greg lifted his hand to scratch around the horn of the equine. "You're late. Could have used you months back." He accused laughingly.

The Alfain tilted her head, confusion wrinkling her delicate features, "You are mistaken a'Strade. I am on Quest, tracking one John Hamish Watson."

"Ah yeah, that's me." John stepped forward, totally confused. "Do you know me?"

Lyra's cool brown eyes looked deep into his and for a moment John was frozen by them. Then she nodded once and whispered to herself "Yes, you are the one." Then her eyes widened with amazement. She shifted her gaze to Lestrade, "This is your John Watson?"

"Yeah," There was a strange look in Greg's eyes, joy, astonishment and determination mixed, "And we are missing a Sherlock Holmes."

This time the horse-like creature spoke, the voice trembling with something John couldn't guess at, "We have a Sherlock Holmes who needs his Dr. Watson after a Great Fall."

John wanted to speak but the strangeness of the scene held him frozen. Something was happening here beyond all that he had ever guessed was involved with finding the lost detective. Lestrade's eyes were filled with an anticipation that John couldn't understand. "May I be released then?" The DI asked.

"Yes Greg," Stinan said, "I have something that belongs to you." The equine tuned his head around to pluck from his harness what appeared to be a Scotland Yard badge. He swung around and pressed it to Lestrade's shoulder. The coat that John's friend nearly always wore began to *change*. The color lightened to a silvery grey and the sleeves disappeared while the entire garment became longer. A hood appeared at Lestrade's back and the whole thing became a voluminous cloak.

"Christ," John breathed, taking a step back, "You are one of them. A..."

"A Child of the Quest? A Quester?" Lestrade said quite calmly, adjusting the cloak around him. "Yeah I am and for quite a while too John." The silver haired man John thought he knew, straightened and seemed to start on a speech long prepared. "Years before I met Sherlock I was a beat cop. I stumbled upon a group of Questers being attacked by a bloody Wyvern that had somehow stumbled through one of the old Gates. That started my journey to...well this." Lestrade brushed his hand down the cloak. John saw that it picked up muted shades of the snow, trees, and even John's garments as it shifted.

"But you never said, never even hinted that you knew what Questers were much less was one of them!" John shook his head, disgusted by the feeling of betrayal.

The Alfain stepped forward, wrapping her own grey cloak around her garments that were shades of green and brown, her long straight black hair flowing out behind her. "Dr. Watson, he could not. Once it was known that he was a Lestrade who would encounter a Sherlock Holmes gaesa, spells of restraint were placed upon him so that he would not be able to speak of us, or even to remember when in the company of a Holmes. He has been highly honored for being willing to be so restricted, preserving the story that he would be a part of. a'Strade could have chosen to leave this world. Instead; he made the choice to remain."

"And to stay I had to make sure that Sherlock or his brother would never even get a hint that I was anything other than a *slightly* more intelligent cop." Lestrade leaned against the Stinan's broad, coal black shoulder. "But think about it for a second. I first knew Sherlock as a kid who had gotten in way over his head with drugs. I bent and broke rules to let him on to crime scenes and then let you in on his say so without even taking a look at your ID to check that you were really a Doctor? Didn't that seem even a little odd for you?"

John was taken aback, "I...you said you needed him."

"I did. No one can work his way through a case like a Sherlock Holmes and my closure rate was the highest in the Yard. But none of that explains why I simply accepted *you* without even inquiring into your credentials." Lestrade gave him a steady look, "You assumed Sherlock dominated me and that's exactly what you were meant to think. That doesn't mean it was the truth. I had been waiting for Dr. Watson to walk in to the life of my Sherlock Holmes and I was damn happy when you finally showed up."

"Your Sherlock Holmes. You say that like there are Sherlocks all over the place!" John clenched his jaw; too much information was flooding his mind. He felt like he was drowning in it.

"May I a'Strade?" The Alfain asked.

"Knock yourself out Lyra." Lestrade said, turning back to comb through the rich black mane of the entity John supposed he must now think of as Stinan. "If I keep going now I'll basically be apologizing for my whole life and that's not on my list of things to do today."

John knew he had hurt his friend, but this story was far too much for him to handle calmly. "Yes, please, could someone turn my whole world over again and shake it, I find the whole experience invigorating as hell!"

"Please, Dr. Watson," Lyra's demeanor did not change at all. Her expression was calm, a bit distant, but also fascinated. It reminded John abruptly of Sherlock when he was thinking over a case, and that refocused the Doctor. Sherlock was somewhere and the way to get to him was to assimilate this information as quickly as he could so he could get to wherever his friend was. He could do that. The Alfain saw this and so continued. "You may have encountered the idea that there can be many alternate universes perhaps?"

John nodded shortly, "Of course, yeah, Sci-Fi and Fantasy writers use them all the time."

"They are not wrong. Universes deviate, sometimes from small occurrences, sometimes from larger ones. This planet, Earth, had a very large occurrence just before its last Ice Age that caused it to become the focus point of more alternate universes than any other planet in the known cosmos. Other planets may have a few alternate versions, but no one has ever been able to count how many alternate Earths there are."

John nodded, "That's why all the things that were thrown at us during the invasion were so different."

"And why none of your technology will work beyond the borders of the city. London, all of the Londons have remained intact during the Shattering because the 'occurrence' that caused the Earth splitting off happened here." Lyra recited this as if it were primary school knowledge. Perhaps to her people it was.

"Your people did it." John said, "I read something about that on the link that was left with us. Couldn't make it out really. Something about a Spell of Balance?"

"Hell I almost choked on my drink the night you told me that you got it to respond to you." Lestrade put in, still leaning against his Stinan's side. "Those things aren't supposed to react more than minimally to someone not cloaked."

"A'Strade, please. We have only a certain amount of time." Lyra turned back to John. "That being said, with the multiplicity of alternates it means that there are alternates of people as well as places. They are not carbon copies. A soul cannot be cloned, but because they are often molded by similar lives they tend to *be* similar. So my friend Greg Lestrade is not the only one, nor is Sherlock Holmes, nor are you, John Watson. On some Earths you may be woman, or even non-human. On others you may even be a character of stories on the page or the screen. But you are always much the same at heart and you are always are seen with Sherlock Holmes." She folded her arms over her chest, "And Sherlock Holmes always needs his Dr. Watson."

"We, the Questers, have something like a scientific law about this, John." Lestrade said softly, "For every reality there is a fiction and for every fiction a reality. I was pretty young when I had to accept the fact that my life was driven by what was or would be a story in another universe. I had the option to pop myself out of it when I accepted the cloak of a the Lady of the Quest took me aside and explained to me what could happen if I did. She had met a Sherlock Holmes, you see, and she knew how hard it could be for him. Harder in our 21st century society than the 19th century that she had met him in. She explained it all to me and what spells she would have to cast over me if I chose to stick with it."

"The Lady is always thorough in that regard." Stinan added, "I was involved as well because during the time Greg was preparing to take the cloak, he and I found we were suited to each other as Partners. It is a profound connection between an Allyrian such as myself and another that is usually life long."

"And she made sure I realized what price I would have to pay to stay here and be the DI that Sherlock Holmes would come to for cases." Lestrade shrugged, "I made the choice to stay and watch out for him...and you. It was worth it."

"So you knew...all along what was going to happen. Me showing up? Moriarty?" John again felt the need to accuse his friend.

"Well sort of. I wasn't allowed access to the stories of other alternates, that's generally not a good idea anyway. At first I was just told to watch for Sherlock and then watch for you. But 15 years ago..." he glanced at Stinan and Lyra, "by our reckoning anyway; there was a big gathering of Questers. We call them Conclaves and this was one of the largest that there had ever been. The Lady was going into seclusion for a while and wanted to celebrate with all of the Quest's Children before she did."

"Seclusion?" John shook his head, "Like a nun or something."

"More like protective custody." Lestrade said, "She was pregnant and so vulnerable. Questers have opposite numbers, Wayfinders, and they aren't the nicest people." Lestrade scratched behind his ear, "I suspected Jim Moriarty once of being one of them, but he turned out too chaotic. Wayfinders believe in Order."

"You're a cop, Greg. Don't you believe in law and order?"

"Well yeah, but I also believe in people being able to make their own choices. Wayfinders don't like that concept. And some take that to an extreme. The Lady had a good reason to hide. She took the time to have another long talk with me at the conclave though and was able to give me three pieces of advice. One, she reminded me to keep an eye out for you. Two, that Baskerville could be more than you and Sherlock could handle and three..." Lestrade stopped and put his hand over his eyes, "There was nothing I could do about the Fall. *That* I never understood until the moment I got the call about Sherlock. I don't think I was meant to."

"But now we are left with the results of the Fall in a way never before known. Your Holmes was found in an alternate London, one very far removed in kind from this one. Magic thrives there and science is relatively unknown. He was very ill...Gate sickness." Lyra said grimly.

John felt his stomach fall into a cold pit; he'd seen someone come in with that from...another place. She had been delirious and they had never been able to find out where she came from. They couldn't do anything about her fever or other symptoms and she died during an unstoppable series of seizures. John had never known her name but her face as she died now floated before his eyes, "No." He said, uselessly.

"He is receiving the best care we can give, Doctor." Stinan somehow had moved so that John could brace himself against the warm, comforting side of Allyrian. John felt the brush of feathers against his face and it startled him out of the haze that had threatened to descend. "His Gate sickness is complicated by his innate inability to comprehend a magical universe but the topmost specialist in the field of handling such cases is most likely even now at his side."

"Why?" John cleared his throat, "why couldn't he and this specialist come here?"

Lyra and Lestrade shared a glance, "Mycroft?" His friend asked the Alfain.

"Exactly." Lyra turned a bit more towards John to explain when a sound penetrated the seeming bubble of isolation that had been around them, the once familiar thumping of helicopter blades. No one had had petrol enough to waste on such vehicles in months.

Lestrade turned fast to Lyra, "No Helicopters here since the Shattering. The Wayfinders?" He said, suddenly taking command.

"No, they were travelling via gate. The agreement called for us to coordinate precisely. It must be a third front!" Lyra ran scrambling up one of the surrounding trees like a squirrel. "Three incoming, "She yelled down, "They are on all three sides."

"Fuck!" Lestrade pushed John back against the troika as the .30 caliber weapons of American Apache attack copters opened fire, shredding some of the decorations of the troika. They avoided Stinan however, for whatever reason John couldn't figure out. "They're not coming to kill, they're coming to capture." Lestrade assessed the situation quickly.

"Capture? Capture who?" John asked, the sweet thrill of adrenalin running in his veins. He reached for a gun he hadn't carried in months, swearing when he didn't find it.

"You, John. I dunno why they want you, but you are the most important of the four of us. We gotta get you out of here." Lestrade, pulled the door of the enclosed sleigh open without ceremony and pushed the Doctor in. "Lyra, get your ass down here!"

"Here!" John heard a thud; the crazy woman must have made a leap from the tree right onto the troika roof.

Lestrade opened what looked like a small cabinet in the interior of the troika and threw a leather harness with locking carabineers to John. "Strap in, John. This isn't going to be a pleasure ride. "Stinan!" He called through the strangely transparent front of the troika, "Damage?!"

"Deflective shield gone! All the weaponry is in the usual places. Lyra's locked in already." Stinan started making huge sweeps of his wings, pawing at the ground with his hooves. He reared up with a challenging neigh to the men in the helicopters that John felt should ring throughout the park if not the city.

"Right, right." Lestrade muttered and dug into another cabinet to grab a bag of what looked like small copper discs.

"Pennies? Greg what the hell?" John was fastening the harness around himself and locking in to rings set into the panels of the troika.

Lestrade gave him a half crazed smile, "Yeah, they wouldn't suspect a penny to blow up in their face would they. Old trick. Stinan duck under the bastards and get into the skies!"

John felt a heavy jolt as they were lifted off the ground seemingly by Stinan's wings. He didn't doubt that magic was involved somehow but when the next spray of bullets seemed to slingshot around them to shoot right back at the helicopters he wasn't of a mind to complain about magic. Lestrade grinned at him again, "Lyra's a shield specialist. She can keep three types of shields active at a time...good to have on your side."

"Yes, "John gulped, "God yes. Nice to know we have some advantage."

"Don't get too nervous." Lestrade put a handful of pennies in each pocket, strapped himself into a harness, and opened the door of the troika. "Stinan and I used to win all the reindeer games."

"What?" John asked but his friend had already swung out and up onto the top of the damn troika. "Fucking idiot!" John muttered but then couldn't help himself. He locked on to the rings by the door so he could see out.

"Stinan, I have an idea. Head for the Tower!" Lestrade was yelling as he got himself into a good position. Stinan managed to do a ducking maneuver that had gotten them out of the surround of the three copters. He made a tight circle coming around to the west and making more speed than the copters could manage. Somehow the draft horse sized creature managed to slip like a falcon around the buildings in their way. The machine gun fire behind them never make it close.

Lyra yelled, "Second shield up, full deflective!" As the Allyrian practically tripped over the rooftops he stayed so low. The machines behind them couldn't manage to keep up but they started to get above them. They were still firing but all the bullets ricocheted off a force shield that John couldn't see.

They were close though, close enough for Lestrade to fling a handful of those pennies at them. Three explosions blossomed, causing one of the copters to wobble but recover enough to stay close. "Third shield!" Lestrade ordered.

"Absorption up!" Lyra cried back, John couldn't see her but she must be somewhere up beside his friend on the flat roof of the troika.

"Dammit Stinan, they are getting too high! Ground!" Lestrade called. He threw five more of the penny missiles. This time the resulting damage caused one of the helicopters to draw back.

"Brace for landing." The resonant voice replied shortly. John took a firm hold of the sides of the door. The sudden drop to the street rattled him. The Allyrian didn't break a stride, galloping through the carriage and car traffic, weaving his way towards the goal Lestrade had set out for them.

The DI was swearing when he reached over the edge of the troika's roof and grabbed a couple of long spears that had been hidden among the carvings on the side of the vehicle. John couldn't believe it when Lestrade attached one of the pennies to the point with what looked like chewing gum. John ducked back inside as the troika side swiped a carriage then lifted himself further up to see the man he thought he knew take an expert throwing position on the flat top of the troika. "Come on you bastards!" Lestrade yelled at the pilots of the copters. "Are you hard enough?"

Lyra who had been kneeling with her hands flat on the sleigh roof snapped her head up. "They are targeting us with light!"

"Lasers, make us dark!" Lestrade snapped out to Lyra. "Stinan we need to go back to the crow's path line, dammit!"

"Right, hold on!" Again the Allyrian and his vehicle ascended into the sky, this time taking a steeper angle. John was grateful for the harness that held him but was impressed that Lestrade managed to keep his throwing stance. As they passed close to one of their pursuers, Lestrade launched the long spear. It hit right in the rotor assembly. The ensuing explosion crippling the copter as the pilot tried to compensate for torque he had lost.

"Invisibility?" Lyra asked.

Shit no," John cried, "They are targeting missiles on us!"

"Light reflection." Lestrade snapped just before a missile was launched. It went in a straight line over them and then dove in an arc into the nearby Thames. The damaged copter made a bad landing behind them. It seemed vaguely ridiculous that Lestrade spoke calmly into his radio for a security squad to apprehend the pilots and capture their helicopter.

"Almost there!" Stinan cried, "This better be good Greg!"

"It's fantastic Stinan," Lestrade yelled back as Lyra pitched some of the copper missiles at the two remaining pursuers. He was calmly attaching a penny to another spear. "Lyra, shield your radio against a magic surge. I lost a good phone the last time I stepped over the line here."

"What!" John cried, totally confused.

"The Spell of Balance was cast right where the Tower of London stands, John. The abrupt surge in magic will take out any tech not specifically shielded against it. Stinan!" Lestrade ordered with grim satisfaction, "Land right in the courtyard." He threw the spear but it wasn't as lucky a shot as the last one. It still blew near enough to rock the copters in their path.

"Brace!" Stinan called and they bounced on the grass in the courtyard of the Tower.

Lestrade watched in satisfaction as the missiles that had been shot at them simply dropped from the sky right at the curtain wall. The remaining Helicopters couldn't come any closer. "Let's not linger, a'Fellarell." He said with utter calm to Stinan.

"I don't have the coordinates of the enclave we are supposed to go to as yet." Lyra said.

"I don't want to wait do you?" Lestrade shot back.

"I know a place." Stinan said and a mist descended obscuring everything. John had the opposing senses of movement and stillness at the same time. Then they were in a place John had never seen the like of before in his life.

"This isn't London." He said dully.

"And you aren't Toto either, John." Lestrade grinned back at him, looking every inch the triumphant warrior.


	4. Flight to Enclave

John heard the echoing drip of water somewhere out in the absolute darkness that surrounded the faint glow of light the carvings on the troika. "Where the hell are we, Greg?" He asked as his friend swung expertly down off the top, using carvings as hand holds.

"Safe, other than that..." Greg looked around, "Stinan you said you knew this place or did you slip?"

The equine flipped his wings to fold against his back, "I am not so clumsy as that. I used this cave when I was negotiating with some local dragons to try to acquire their shape. Never made the shaping work but I'm sure I left of cache of supplies here."

John looked away from where he was unfastening the harness that had kept him in the sleigh on their wild ride. "Didn't we go through a Gate?" John had not had cause to go through one of the magical 'holes' that lead to other worlds, but that's the only thing he knew that could have transported them from London to where ever this cavern was.

"Allyrians do not need Gates, Dr. Watson." Lyra said, descending from the sled somewhat more decorously than Lestrade.

"Allyrians are the most versatile species in the known universe." Stinan chuckled.

"If you do say so yourself." Lestrade shot back at him. John was getting a better idea of Lestrade's friendship with the Allyrian all the time, trying to fit it in with the knowledge that he already had of the man. He had to conclude he had never really known the DI at all; but then again where had there really been room in his life to get close to anyone since the day Sherlock Holmes had deduced his entire life in a lab at Bart's.

"I do say so myself. Grab the harness if you please Greg." Stinan requested, nodding his head impatiently. John expected the silver haired man to start unfastening the harness, but he merely gripped the one strap above the wings. Then the Allyrian's form twisted in a way that made John's eyes ache for a moment and instead of the winged, horned equine there was a black coated wolf standing there. He looked around and from the eyes John knew that it was still Stinan. "We are the Swiss army knife of species; defense, stealth, or transportation, all in a day's work." The resonant voice was the same, and John couldn't help but grin at a character straight out of a fantasy novel referring to Swiss army knives.

"Stop showing off, you great prat! We need to get to work on reconstructing your defensive shields. Obviously someone thinks they can hold John as a hostage so we are going to need all the advantages we can get." Lestrade pulled the harness up and hung it on a peg at the front of the troika. It looked completely solid from the outside but John could clearly remember being able to see out from the inside. He supposed he'd have to get used to things like that in a universe that held even more magic than he had previously seen. Somehow he couldn't mind. He liked the feeling of security it gave him that people like Stinan and Lyra were taking care of Sherlock. Still he liked it less that this apparently was going to be something of a rest stop.

"We're going to be here for a while then?" He asked, making sure.

Lyra was fiddling with the radio assembly she had been carrying under her cloak. "Indeed, the negotiations were rather delicate and part of the agreement was that you and Mycroft Holmes were to arrive at the enclave where his brother is being treated at the same time."

"So the rumors of a truce?" Lestrade put in.

"Are quite true, which is why we will have to be very careful indeed. Right now almost anything could bring it down."

"Okay, you two, could you please stop the talking around me. If we *have* to kick our heels around before getting to Sherlock I'd really like one of you to slow down and tell me exactly why. Not to mention that although there are loads of John Watsons around; apparently I'm the one someone wants to capture! No matter what Sherlock has led you to believe, Greg, being kept in the dark *really* pisses me off!" John couldn't help himself, the adrenaline surge from the fight hadn't left his system, he punched the side of the sled in frustration.

"Easy John." Lestrade said, he exchanged glances with Lyra. Then he reached underneath the troika to bring out two wooden objects that folded out into benches. "I've had the leisure to study a lot of Quester history so if you sit with me I'll try to explain what I know while these two set up camp. Lyra then can fill in what current events I'm not up on."

John still felt like he wanted to punch something, maybe even Greg because he had kept these secrets so long, but he knew it wouldn't get him one step closer to Sherlock. So he breathed deeply through his nose, exhaled through his mouth and shook his hands out to get rid of the tension before he sat on the bench that faced his friend. "A historian?" He was able to comment calmly. "Not something I ever pictured you doing, Greg."

Lestrade shrugged expressively "I had time on my hands, at least before Himself breezed into my life, and I made time after. I figured if I couldn't be out there living like a Quester I might as well learn all there was about us."

John heard some rocks tumbling and saw the great black wolf that was Stinan uncover a cache over Lestrade's shoulder, "Can you get to the point instead of talking all the way around it. I was a soldier, I'm used to briefings."

Lestrade sighed, "All right, let's see." The silver haired man rubbed his chin and adjusted the grey cloak so that it was more off his shoulders. "It all begins and ends with the Spell of Balance. See, everything that is happening now is what that Spell was trying to prevent. It's the most complex piece of magic ever devised and it had to have living components to stay adjusted to the expanding universes and all the spaces in between."

"Spaces in between?"

"Yeah, that what all the world splinters are floating in now. It's an interdimensional space the Alfain call the Far Lands, although they are called 'Alflands' by some because the Alfain seemed to come from there half the time. Really, eons ago they fled a home world they have no record of to wander those Far Lands for a long time...long enough that there is evidence of them evolving to suit its peculiarities." Greg smiled at Lyra who was striking a spark into the small fire she had set up. "Or maybe they just spread that story to account for their stubborn natures."

"One has to be stubborn to enforce reality by willpower alone, a'Strade. Those that could survived in the Far Lands long enough to have children and hence we evolved." Her voice was still cool but John, his ear tuned to nuances by dealing with how Sherlock could be sometimes, could hear the amusement in her voice.

"Fucking strange to hear someone who looks like an elf talk about evolution." John smiled, relaxing as much as he could.

"Science and magic have never been as mutually exclusive as people of our world tend to think." Lestrade explained, "There are a lot of worlds out there where the potential for science or magic is roughly at the same level, although knowledge of one or the other has usually more developed. On some worlds the two are combined, on the Crown world of the Alfain for instance, magical components are used to fuel technology so as not to pollute the environment. They never quite forget what is to be without a solid world under their feet so they keep their adopted home world as pristine as possible."

"Okay fine. I get that. But this Spell of Balance I don't get. It has *living* components?"

"Anyone who wears the cloaks of the Questers or the marks of the Wayfinders is a part of the Spell." Lyra said as she added bigger pieces to the small flame she had kindled.

"Exactly. We are tiny pieces of the Spell so I'd say that parts of it are still limping along. Sorta like, "Lestrade rubbed his chin meditatively, "a computer that has a virus but isn't completely crashed yet. Spells of any sort need two things; an energy source and a matrix, a structured pattern of thought made into a form." Lestrade gestured to the intricate carvings that glowed softly from the troika, "like the knot work there that we are going to need to replace. They are the matrices of the shield spells that are incorporated into the sled itself. I helped Stinan design some of the carvings and the harness that allows him to transfer more than himself and a rider."

"You forget," Stinan said, padding over, "They only enhance my breedline's natural abilities. The a'Fellarell have always been able to transfer more than their riders."

"And the pride of an Allyrian is in their breedline." Lestrade laughed.

"Naturally." Stinan curled himself up at Greg's feet and John saw Lestrade scratch him behind the ears. It was an odd picture and he couldn't help grinning at it.

"So you are part of the matrix of this enormous spell." John checked.

"Tiny parts. The main parts of the spell are the two ladies and the two swords. Each embody one of the two opposing forces of the universes; the force of Change or Choice and the force of Order or Stasis. That why it's called the Spell of Balance and why the actions of Wayfinders and Questers are called the War of Balance." As the fire rose Lestrade made a scan of their surroundings. It really was a cavern, the stalagmites and stalactites reflecting various colors as the light of the fire hit them. It was rather surreal but strangely beautiful.

"Does it have to be a war?" John asked mournfully.

"War encompasses every emotion of sentient beings in peacetime and those only associated with battle. So yeah it has to be war. Anyway, those attracted to the Wayfinders don't like that they can't control the choices other people make and Questers love that people make choices. Instant conflict."

"Wanting to control people's choices sounds like Mycroft."

"Too right, that's why I wasn't surprised that we have to be so coordinated about all this. Mycroft is a textbook Wayfinder and Sherlock, with his way of shocking people out of complacency and generally messing about, is a Quester to his bones. That's why when you told me at first Mycroft had basically set Sherlock up with Moriarty I wasn't really surprised...I was more surprised that they hadn't tried to kill each other when they were kids."

"Okay, I think I'm starting to get some of this. Big spell, lots of universes, and I can definitely believe that there was something a little stronger than sibling rivalry between Sherlock and Mycroft. What you haven't been able to explain to me is how this almighty spell has been broken and why the hell would people want me as a hostage." John saw with satisfaction that Lyra had dug a kettle out of the seemingly inexhaustible cabinets in the troika, filled it from the tiny spring that was by the cache, and placed it on the fire. He could certainly use a cuppa right now.

"How the Spell got broken?" Lestrade looked down at Stinan, "I've only had rumors come through so far. Can you clear it up, Stin?"

"Yes," the wolf looked at John appraising him, "It might be well that you know. The Lady Arivinna's seclusion failed. The Wayfinders tricked a fian of Questers into hacking the shields protecting her."

"Oh Christ, " Lestrade said and covered his face.

"Yes a'Strade," Lyra said with vast understanding, "Findrel, the Lady of Order herself led the charge. It took them days to get through but by the time they did Arivinna was in the final stages of labor. I have heard the story from her lips personally, and it seems that in the panic and confusion she reached for her sword, the sword of Change, at the exact moment that her Second, Diarmait MacGregor, did. So he was able to grasp it as would not be possible ordinarily. But he could not channel the energy of it in battle with Findrel and the Sword of Order. The swords shattered and so did the Spell."

"The babies?" Lestrade asked in a horror that John himself could feel; although the resignation in his friend's voice disturbed him. Who the hell could attack a woman giving birth? He felt himself hardening to the Wayfinders already.

"Safely born." Stinan said, pressing against Lestrade's leg, "And the only thing that saved our Arivinna. We know Findrel fell into a coma with the fracturing of the Spell, but what mother can ignore the cries of her own newborn babes?"

"And that was 15 years ago for you?" Lestrade asked Lyra and Stinan, "I know times lines flow differently between world splinters."

"More like 20 actually. The twins look about the same as seven year old human children so I think that's closer to the correct timescale. Alfain mature at a third the rate of human children." Stinan thrust his nose under Lestrade's hand, "It's been a long, hard run without you, Greg."

"Right," John, said, "again I'm getting more information than I think I need." He turned to Lyra, "Why would anyone want to capture me? I'm a non-entity in all this."

"Not so. You are the companion of Sherlock Holmes, a Sherlock Holmes that must now learn magic, because he has been exposed to so much he must either learn it or be driven insane. The only way to start that process is to have the one person he trusts completely by his side as he does it." Lyra said, filling a teapot, "The negotiations went rather fast as soon as he was discovered where he was. The result was that the Wayfinders get access to Mycroft Holmes and the Questers, in the form of Stinan and myself, who were sent to find the John Watson that belonged with this Holmes. Meanwhile, a foremost authority on helping those whose sanity rests on a completely explainable universe will guide them both into accepting the particular logic of Magic. Magic does have its own laws like those of physics but they depend on a different kind of logic and knowledge base." Lyra sighed and started pouring out the tea. When she handed John his cup she looked deeply into his eyes, "A third front, one who would prefer the Shattering be the new status quo, could do worse than to capture you. You are a major playing piece in the tentative truce that has been managed between Quester and Wayfinder."

"In other words, John, we're in a fuck of a lot of trouble. The best we can do is to get you to where ever Sherlock is. Pretty sure they'll try to keep him unconscious, but they can only do that so long. "Lestrade said briskly but there was a sympathetic light in his eyes as he stood, "In the meantime what we can do is reweave the troika's reflective shield so we have a decent chance of getting there in one piece."

Stinan also lifted himself to his feet, "Lyra, fresh rations are through the back panel. See if you can cobble something together; we all need refueling after that run to the Tower."

John got up to help the Alfain woman as she opened another of the seemingly inexhaustible cabinets; this one at the tail end of the sled. "Why is it that as soon as you saw Lestrade you let him take over? You must be three times his age at least."

"a'Strade is Stinan's Partner, now that he is released from geas he stands as senior on any mission that Stinan a'Fellarell takes." A slight smile crossed the woman's otherwise solemn face. "I do not mind. I have not been accompanying Stinan long on his quests but long enough to know that he has missed his partner quite dearly."

John gathered a stew pot while Lyra rummaged among what appeared to be some fresh beef, vegetables, even bread. "You always call him a'Strade."

"A mark of respect. Among my people Allyrians are admired, they are a truly remarkable species. If we greatly esteem someone we refer to them with an Allyrian version of their surname. His restraint and patience has earned him that respect with many Questers, we all tend towards impatience, so his ability to just wait until the right moment is something of a favorite story among us."

"So Lestrade becomes a'Strade, I see. " John followed her back to the fire with an armload of supplies. "I'm really trying to keep this together. After months of hearing and knowing nothing now it feels like my own personal world has been shattered now I need to learn all this information before I am allowed to see my friend."

"Truly John, if we could we would have you at his side even now." The Alfain bent over some vegetables, cutting them finely, " I saw him before we were sent" she said in a low voice, "He calls for you, he seems to think that he is drugged or has drugged himself, so he calls to you and begs your forgiveness. Sometimes it even seems as if you are speaking and he is answering you. Forgive me John Watson, but that is when I have seen his tears."

John drew in a ragged breath, "My forgiveness? And somewhere in his mind I'm what? Berating him?" The hurt deep within magnified at Lyra's hesitant nod. The Sherlock Holmes John knew had always been convinced he knew the best answer to everything. He'd never ask for forgiveness much less beg for it. "Ah yeah...what should I do with this stuff?" He said after clearing his throat roughly; deflecting from a subject he just couldn't handle right now.

"Separate some of the beef out for Stinan to eat in his present form. Protein contains more concentrated energy than grains so he'll be eating in wolf form. The rest...have you ever made a campfire meal?"

"No, we always had Compos in the field. I never had much of a chance to learn how to cook in the field much. But I can keep the kettle heated."

"That is well, hot water is always welcome. We don't have time for a stew but I can make an approximation of what you might call a stir fry. Stinan and I have been on the trail for quite a while now so I've become practiced at quick meals." The woman's eyes were sympathetic but John couldn't face it. Somewhere out there Sherlock was so broken, in such a delirium that he was begging John's forgiveness. Somehow the wail he woke up to that morning which seemed so long ago passed through his mind. He repressed a shudder. Occasionally he had wished that the massive intellect that was Sherlock Holmes would be taken down a peg by someone or something; but this was too much, much too much.

John wandered over to where Lestrade had set up with some half-finished carved boards and squatted down to watch as the DI widened some cuts and made new ones; all the time discussing with Stinan their effectiveness. He needed a distraction from the images that Lyra had awakened in his mind. "So this is a spell then?" He said as he handed a warm cup to Lestrade.

"The matrix at any rate John." Lestrade kept his eyes down on his carving but John could hear a slight shake in his voice. Greg must have heard what Lyra said of Sherlock and was almost as thrown by the imagery.

"Still don't quite understand how this matrix stuff works." John took a sip of his own tea, concentrating on what was at hand. It was all he could do.

"Symbolism, John," Stinan put in, regarding from various angles another carved piece that lay on the ground. "When I look at these symbols it reminds my subconscious of what I'm trying to make the spell do. So as I feed energy into it that 'teaches' the energy to take the shape I will it to. Also every time I look at them it teaches it a bit more. Plus I add in energy between missions." Stinan tilted his head a bit, " I think Lyra is right, Greg, if we repeat the pattern smaller but in multiples it will be less likely that one attack can take out the whole shield like it did."

"Live and learn, mate, must have been nice to travel with a shield specialist for a while." Lestrade whittled off one rounded piece of carving that reminded John of a St Brigid's cross that he had seen once. "Here," he said, trimming a last bit off, "use this to show John what we mean."

"It's not going to be like fireworks Greg."

"John's perceptive enough to see something happen under his nose." Lestrade grinned, if with still a bit of strain to it, "Anyway, you love to strut your stuff."

Stinan let out an explosive snort. "You are getting far more mileage out of that than I should allow you."

"It's been 10 years since I saw you, Partner, indulge me." Lestrade laughed and John couldn't begrudge his friends good cheer. It was rather obvious that the two were extremely good friends and theirs had been a long separation indeed. Longer if not as tragic as John's separation from Sherlock. He longed with sudden intensity to learn all the parts of Lestrade that had never been visible before the Fall. He realized that he had only ever seen half of the person that Lestrade was, almost a cardboard cutout, a long suffering side show to the main attraction that was Sherlock Holmes. But this man, calmly carving something that would become _magic, _while joking with a creature that was an equine, a wolf, and God knows what else was an entire person and utterly confident in what he knew.

"All right, I'll make it visible for the inestimable Dr. Watson." Stinan let out something that was halfway between a bark and a laugh. Then taking the piece of carving from Lestrade's hands, held it carefully in his jaws.

He moved slowly away from where Greg started to refine another carving and lay the Brigid's cross upon a convenient flat topped rock. "There," he said, as he observed the saliva covered surface of the carving, "the convenience of this form is that by placing it I give the carving some of my substance merely by carrying it. That sets a resonance up between us and makes it easier to channel the energy into it."

"The...drool?" John asked incredulously.

"Indeed," Stinan sent him an amused look, "easier than to blood it, although I may do that to some of the other carvings. Still without an energy source this would remain but a fairly attractive bit of carving. There are three kinds of energy sources I could draw on to make it more; Planetary, Celestial, or Dimensional. When we have leisure I will probably be able to explain the differences but suffice it to say for many reasons it is wisest to use dimensional energy. I will attempt to make the 'draw' visible to you."

"All right." John couldn't say much more than that. He tried to put into his tone that he was grateful to the Allyrian for explaining things in technical terms. It made him more relaxed with the very idea of magic. He watched as the wolf lay down and put his nose to the carving with a huffed out breath. Then from the thin air there appeared what looked to be little drifts of mist. Slowly they coalesced into a steady stream that centered itself on Stinan, the colorless vapor masking his form a bit as it grew heavier. Just when John thought he was about to lose sight of the Allyrian completely it sank into a violet glowing ball on the tip of Stinan's nose. He huffed again. The ball became a beam that slowly sank into the carving until it glowed like metal heated in a fire. Brighter and brighter it grew until John was surprised by the thump of the shapechangers tail; once, twice, a third time and all the energy sank right into the wood to be absorbed.

"Hmm," John cleared his throat, trying to get his scrambled thoughts together. "I...well I assume that was what was supposed to happen."

Stinan chuckled roughly, a bit hoarse, "Very much so. But I think I'll need a bite and a drink before I attempt much more. This is the most important piece anyway. All else will be more reinforcement and back up than anything else. Carry it to the fire, please, John. I'd like Lyra to check my work."

"Yeah, all right." John gingerly picked up the carving. It wasn't wet with wolf drool anymore, but he could feel it vibrating slightly in his hand, much like a small electric motor would. It made his fingers tingle but he was able to carry it easily enough to where Lyra was dishing out food from a wok shaped pan onto three plates. In another area at the fire was a pile of fresh shredded meat and what looked to be like a bowl of milky tea. John blinked at that; it was hard to imagine a wolf drinking tea, but then it couldn't be stranger than anything else that had happened today.

"My thanks Lyra, when you have a moment will you check the central control matrix? I think it will allow us to shield from more energies at once." Stinan gulped up the meat just as a hungry canine would, downing it in a minute or two. And began lapping at the bowl of tea.

"Dinner first, Stinan, your Partner and his friend have been through much today. Let us not forget sacred hospitality." Lyra said calmly, setting out bottles of what looked like soy sauce and other condiments.

"Ah yes, even in the middle of a disaster we must not forget the civilities." Stinan drawled.

"You have perhaps spent far too much time among humans." John was stung for a moment until he saw the curl of a smile on the Alfain's face and realized they were trying to diffuse John and Greg's tension with humor.

"Humans know enough about hospitality to always have something to drink in the house." Lestrade approached the fire, a weary grin on his face.

"Barely sufficient, a'Strade." Lyra sniffed in mock derision as she handed a full plate to John. It looked a lot like what he was used to as stir-fry, but instead of rice there was a couple of slices of some kind of bread on the side. He bit into it to find it was rich with grains, nuts, and a slight tang like some sourdough bread he had had once on leave.

"I dunno, it usually works with us." Lestrade sat and accept a plate of his own from the woman. "Sometimes the best hospitality is liquid." He said as he chewed.

Lyra's voice took on a slightly scolding tone, "Meat and bread, salt and drink, welcomes friends to hearth and home. Gregory Lestrade Quester of the Fianna of Marathon."

"Cheers Lyra, I thank you for your welcome to the hearth." Both grinned at each other and John couldn't help a snort of amusement. He knew they weren't really taking this seriously but he felt they were trying to distract him and he appreciated it.

They all fell to eating and John was surprised at how good the food was. He hadn't ever associated being in the field with a feast but what he was eating was better than you could get in most restaurants even before the Shattering. Lyra noticed his appreciation and smiled; it made him feel more comfortable with her. Good food seemed to still be a common unifying factor in the cosmos, just by eating at this fire he felt closer to two people who were of a kind he once would have thought only existed in the pages of a book.

Lestrade finished his meal quicker than John and with Stinan went to rummage around in the troika. John snorted in surprise when the cop managed to bring a set of boiled leather armor out of what looked like a tiny cubby hole, "You're going to tell me that the cabinets are bigger on the inside?" He asked, amusement filling him for a moment.

Lestrade snorted, "Too right, when Stinan and I designed this thing we wanted to assume we would have to live out of it if necessary." Greg grunted as he reached to fasten a shoulder buckle, "What do you know, it still fits." He said, shrugging his shoulders, apparently to settle it. By then John was hardly surprised when he buckled a long sword over it. "Stin, do you have anything for John? I don't like the idea of him being unarmed."

Stinan had somehow scrambled up onto a ledge that could pass as a driver's bench and looked to be nosing around into the interior. "What blade does he use?" He asked absently.

"John, you've training with a knife?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah...yeah, some in basic. I'm better with a gun though."

"Know that." Lestrade grinned at him as for a moment they both shared the memory of when John had first joined Sherlock on a case. "Still, gunpowder doesn't work everywhere and in the wide universe Questers tend to prefer blades. It's easier to know exactly who is on the end of your blade but," Lestrade looked over to the Allyrian, "Stinan, you haven't been able to work a bit more on those prototypes have you?"

"What's this a'Strade?" Lyra asked from the fire.

"Something you aren't supposed to know about Lyra. Sometimes in my world a gun, even if it looks a bit strange, is easier to explain than pulling a bloody long sword out of my pocket. Stinan and I were about to test some prototypes when we lost contact." He turned to the Alfain, "Don't frown, wouldn't you rather John Watson had a weapon he was more familiar with?"

"Yeah...okay, I am totally not getting why this is an argument." John said. "And for the record I would like something I know how to use better than a knife."

"Sorry John, cultural bias, Alfain consider a gun to be for the lazy." He faced Lyra again, "Even Questers. But if you don't mind I'd like a better chance of getting us all to the enclave intact. Stinan, what have you got?" The cop who looked closer to someone trying to costume himself as a roman centurion , leaped up beside Stinan.

"My apologies, Doctor, " Lyra was actually blushing, "it was not my intent to give offence."

"Actually, Lyra I didn't even realize you were insulting me so it's fine. Still I am much better with a gun than I am with a knife, and I do feel a little exposed without a weapon I understand."

"Of course." Still Lyra looked slightly scandalized.

Greg pulled out two wrapped objects and brought them back to where John was sitting by the fire. They turned out to be a pistol that looked like it was carved from some reddish brown stone and a rifle that was made of sapphire.

"How are these supposed to be useful, Greg?" John asked, not really all that surprised anymore.

"They use a magic burst as a propellant." Lestrade explained, handing the pistol and its accompanying magazine to John. They fitted together in a way that John was familiar with and he was able to load and arm it without thinking.

"And the crystalline structure of the carborundum family allows to contain and direct the magic better than any metal." Stinan added, padding over to join them, "I haven't had any success in making them variable between projectile and pure energy bursts but these should be adequate for now."

John inspected the pistol thoroughly and the rifle, "As long as they work like they look it shouldn't be a problem."

"Good enough for now." Lestrade concluded, "No place here to make any targeting shots without risking a ricochet; so why don't you take a watch while the rest of us get the set shields into some kind of order. Then after some rest we can try to find the coordinates for where we are supposed to go."

John nodded slightly and turned resolutely away from the fire to maximize his night vision. Everything in him wanted to run in whatever direction would bring him to Sherlock's sick bed. He simply didn't have a direction or anyway to really run on his own. So he subdued his panicky impatience and set himself to guard those who could get him where his heart had run on ahead.

After a few hours Lestrade relieved John from his guard post and insisted that he settle inside the troika. John noticed had now been fitted out with wheels to act more like a carriage. John didn't put up much of a fight since he knew that he was the least knowledgeable and the most vulnerable of them. He merely asked for and got a maintenance kit for the pistol and rifle. Then settling inside the carriage, that he finally noticed was quite comfortably upholstered, he disassembled the two weapons and began cleaning them. They really were much like he was used to carrying in the field, although he didn't look too closely at the magazines. The knowledge that they were prototypes made him a bit nervous, but he felt a bit better with them on hand rather than just relying on the hunting knife Lestrade had furnished him.

He stretched on the bench that converted into a bed and tried to make some sense out of all that had happened in the past day, thinking it might help him get some rest. However, as soon as he tried to settle his mind, all he could think of was what Lyra had told him of Sherlock. He could almost see the man in his mind's eye, fevered, confused, and muttering in broken phrases; some of them deductions but some of them a plaintive cry for John to be there, to forgive for... something. Again he felt the wail that had awakened him that morning in 221B ring through his mind, and he groaned quietly. At the time he had rejected the idea of Sherlock crying out to him in panicked despair but now he felt that it might have been closer to the truth than he had guessed.

His thoughts went back to the night in a Dartmoor inn when Sherlock had trembled and lashed out in what he now realized was a full blown panic attack. The detective had doubted his senses then for one night and it had been the worse part of the drug for Sherlock. Now, with the universe containing so much more than a scientifically trained mind could comprehend all John could contemplate was exactly how long it had been since Sherlock had been able to trust the senses that he had honed to such a fine degree. He clenched his jaw to hold in the pain he felt and the fear that his friend might even now be on the edge of madness. Could he save Sherlock as they seemed to think? He desperately hoped so. So often he had been able to settle Sherlock when that great mind had been obviously trying to tear itself to pieces. 'But you aren't going to be able to do anything for him if you are dead on your feet. Get some sleep Watson.' He sternly thought and willed himself into the kind of light doze that had often been his habit while in Afghanistan.

Fortunately, his caution had been unnecessary and he woke to Lestrade handing him a cup of strong coffee. They had a hasty breakfast and then John and Lestrade kept an eye out as the others meticulously cleaned up the fire and replaced supplies in the cache. "They are very careful about cleaning up, aren't they?" John said to his friend.

"Bit of cultural training and a part of what they are. What I'll be probably be now that I have the chance." Lestrade was wiping oil from the long sword blade he had been sharpening. "It's the job of couriers to get people to the places that they are needed quick while leaving as little trace as possible."

"Hmmm, is that why the a...Fianna of Marathon thing." John asked sipping from the last mug of coffee that he'd managed to grab before the cooking area was broken down.

"Yes," Lestrade grinned, "A group of Questers who commonly work together is called a fian, a group of fians that take similar missions is a Fianna. The Fianna of Marathon tend to be made of those who like courier jobs. I've been an auxiliary because I was waiting for Sherlock and you, And Stinan and I might change jobs now but..." Lestrade might have continued to explain, but John was distracted by a soft, skittering type of sound that came from behind the carriage. For a second he thought it was just him but then he saw Stinan's nose come up and the canine shaped Allyrian started to sniff the still air of the cavern.

John grabbed Lestrade and backed them both into the side of the carriage, getting his rifle into position. "Can you hear it?" He asked Greg.

"Didn't hear a thing." Lestrade immediately looked towards his Partner whose hackles had risen. "What the hell?"

John heard the skittering get closer to the other side of the carriage so he slid around the front of vehicle and spied an enormous spider. It was huge, the top of its carapace well above John's head. Fortunately his combat training snapped into place and he immediately took aim and fired, hitting the head and dropping it instantly. From behind him he heard a bolt or small arrow clatter into the protected side of the carriage, but he was suddenly far more concerned with the arrow that had come from somewhere behind the spider he'd just shot. It lodged deep into the meat of his shoulder, right next to where a bullet had taken him so long ago in Afghanistan. "Fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Lestrade moved closer to him, using a round shield to cover John's back. A murmuring that had been just below hearing level rose around them to a strident conclusion and the DI started swearing sulferously. "Stinan, this safe refuge of yours has got a Drider problem!" He called to his Partner.

"Don't you mean spider?" John gasped as Lestrade unceremoniously ripped the arrow out of his shoulder, it was bleeding but not bad, they could tend it later.

"Spiders don't shoot crossbow bolts, but driders that are half spider, half dark elf do." Lestrade looked all around, keeping his shield up. "We need to get rid of them or get out of here fast and this place isn't big enough for Stinan to get air room."

Just as Lestrade said that, Stinan ran towards them flat out. He leaped high taking the winged unicorn shape as he landed on the carriage top. He reared up on his hind legs, his wings and front hooves raking the air as he trumpeted a Stallion's challenge to the darkness and the enemies it contained. It didn't seem to make a difference, but it allowed Lyra time to run between two other spiders and slam into the back of the carriage they were all grouped around.

"Dammit, Greg, don't we have any flares or something. I need light to shoot!" John tried to penetrate the darkness as he heard Stinan grunt and squeal from invisible blows.

John got some sense of where one of the driders was and tried to shoot, only to have the rifle jam. "Shit!" He said, blessing his foresight at examining his weapons, he'd be able to clear it in a moment. He heard a thud and noticed that Lyra had done something that threw the spider pursuing her ten feet back. Another was cautiously approaching him and Lestrade, but John trusted his friend enough to guard his back. After all, he was carrying a shield that covered him from shoulder to knee.

Above them John heard Stinan's voice ring out in another strident call. Suddenly the whole cavern was alight, not strong enough to blind him, strong enough to see the things Greg had called driders. From the waist down they looked like versions of the spiders that were closing on them, but above they were misshapen versions of elflike creatures with skins of ebony and slicked back white hair. John thought he saw the gleam of fangs as well. The one he face fitted another bolt into its crossbow. "Holy buggering fuck." He said, his voice choked.

"John, just eliminate them fast and the spiders will leave us alone." Lestrade's voice was more stressed than could be accounted for by combat. Then he called up to the Allyrian, "Goddam it, Stinan, just hit the fuckers!" There was fear in the Lestrade's voice.

The spider behind them closed with Lestrade but couldn't get a bite over his shield. He stayed determinedly at John's back. A moment later, Stinan squealed and jumped down, just barely hitting the spider who staggered. Stinan must have shaped again. The ebony wings on his shoulders were gone but his hooves and horn glowed electric blue. Lestrade, taking advantage of the spider's distraction took its head off with one swipe of his blade.

John turned his attention to the drider that was dodging behind a curtain of webbing. The whole cavern was now strewn with webs, even in places that had looked clear in the fire last night. Whatever these things were they must have been planning this attack half the night. John growled under his breath and squeezed out two shots, grinning in grim satisfaction when he saw that the second shot took the thing down. At the same time the light went out and another of the driders appeared close enough to John to hit him with a slime covered blade. John instinctively blocked with the rifle. It backed away from Lestrade's fierce follow up attack. John staggered back as the arm below the bolt wound went numb. He realized why Lestrade had ripped the arrow out so suddenly; it was poisoned!

Stinan charged the drider, missing narrowly. Then turning to batter it with his hooves. Lestrade closed in a perfectly coordinated maneuver and managed to get in a solid hit. John tried to reach for his shoulder but the numbness had started to race through his veins. He could barely feel his arm. His legs suddenly collapsed underneath him. His breath started to labor as he fumbled the pistol into his hand. Taking a desperate chance fired over Lestrade's head and straight into the fanged face that leered over his friends.

He barely felt Lestrade pick him up and bodily shove him into the carriage. The words he was shouting at Stinan and Lyra becoming a meaningless roar as John struggled to make his lungs take in air. 'A paralytic' he realized, his thoughts going fuzzy with oxygen deprivation.

"Lyra, send the Pythia code and tell them we are coming in whether they like it or not!" Lestrade yelled. In his mind's eye John saw Sherlock beckoning to him but as much as he reached, a black tar wrapped itself around John's chest and he ceased to fight, falling into its clinging embrace.


End file.
